Anousha Datta
Contributing Writer
Queer people have existed for centuries — appearing in ancient texts and scriptures — and will continue to exist, no matter how much queerphobic legislation is passed. Being queer isn’t a fad, a phase or a new “liberal agenda.” And while I would love to write about how queer people have been defamed, insulted, persecuted and overall wronged throughout history, I’d like to talk about a personal opinion: the only person queer people owe knowledge of their identity to is themselves.
Before I begin, I would like to assert that I use queer as an umbrella term including homosexuals, transgender people, people on the ace spectrum — anyone who isn’t heterosexual or cisgender. I understand this is quite a broad umbrella and I might be generalizing some experiences. However, I’m simply putting forth my opinion and experiences as a member, not a representative of the millions of queer people that exist today.
As a queer person raised in a society where any form of queerness isn’t generally accepted or encouraged, I have always felt a sense of responsibility to let people know I’m not straight — slipping it into conversations with people I knew or hoped would be accepting of my identity. When I first understood my sexuality, the initial relief of finally putting to rest all the confusing clutter in my head was quickly overpowered by the scary question of when and how to come out. In the middle of a global pandemic, surrounded by a — let’s say mostly well-meaning, but not very open to queerness — family, it became a new point of stress for me. It was like living a lie.
Later, I gathered up the courage to tell my sister, and gradually some of my friends. But the question of “living a lie” never waned and always stuck out like a sore thumb among all the thoughts in my head. As I surrounded myself with more ideas of queer expression and identity, I realized that I was doing myself a disservice by giving more importance to others’ acceptances and reactions to my queer identity than to my own journey of experiencing queerness.
This leads me to my view that the knowledge of their sexuality isn’t something that queer people owe to anyone but themselves. At the end of the day, broader societal assumptions and harmful legislation is what has driven heterosexuality to be the norm. These assumptions have also turned away trans people, non-binary people and those who do not conform to the two categories of gender that most of society accepts.
Coming out is extremely personal, whether it has to do with gender or sexuality. It’s about revealing a deep and intimate part of yourself and requires trust, bravery and confidence. As much as I would love to live in a world where heterosexuality and being cisgender wasn’t the designated norm, we live in a world where you’re assumed to be straight and cis unless otherwise stated. And if you are part of the “otherwise,” you’re judged, ridiculed and mistreated; in some places around the world, you’re harassed, killed and tried for going against the law.
This is not to say that coming out is not a liberating process, because it is. Knowing that my friends and (select members of) my family know about my sexuality definitely makes me feel lighter. On a broader level, coming out can help people forge friendships, connections and relationships with people they might not have had the opportunity to if they were still in the closet. It can help people accept themselves further and proudly express their identity in their own way.
That being said, identities are personal, especially those of sexuality and gender, and unique to the person they belong to. They are to be shared if and when they are meant to. One doesn’t owe the knowledge of one’s identity to anyone but oneself. It’s deeply private information, even if it may not seem like that to everyone. To quote Charlie Spring — because I just rewatched “Heartstopper,” and no, I will not accept any slander — “I want you to come out when and how you want to.”
